Saturday, December 25, 2010

The cab driver who gave away books

The cab driver was dying. All he could give was a book to each fare he thought needed one.

Have I got a book for you.

You can kill me now or just take this gift. We're all dying buddy. You're dying at this life because you are a complete freakin' asshole. I'm dying because I made some bad choices.

The book I want to give you isn't about you. That might piss you off. Get over it. The world wasn't created for you.

Yes, you're a complete retard. Everything you've done in life up until now has been a total fuck-up; you know that. Your pain is deep, so is everyone's. Get over yourself long enough to accept a gift from someone who is dying too.

You know you're at the short end of your stick. When your girlfriend told you that you're hung like a chipmunk, it wasn't a joke. She was the wise one in that piece. She was saying, actually, that you are too full of yourself and your pathetic sense of what's important. She was saying you ought to lighten up. She was saying that she loves you.

So now you're out robbing dying cab drivers because you are almost dead too.

This book isn't about you. It's about me. I just want to share it with you because you're a consummate dank. You can't kill me, man. I died to your wisdom a long time ago. I'm just a cab driver. I eat in my hack. I smoke in it when the taxicab board isn't looking. I've had mediocre and crazy sex in here too.

It's not about reading a tattered book from a dismally-fucked cab driver. It's not about me. It's not even about you.

It's about taking this gift. It's Christmas, after all.

Just don't kill me, unless you really want to.

Read the first couple of pages. I'll wait. After that, if you're still determined, off me. Get me off — it doesn't matter. You're mad. You're angry. You're disappointed in yourself. I'm your latest target; the current focus of your rage.

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About Me

I was born in London, England in 1955. I arrived in Canada in 1956 after a trans-Atlantic voyage on the Cunard Lines.
My father was in the RCAF, my mother with the Women's Air Force during the Second World War.
My Dad met my mother while he was stationed in Europe. Both of parents are dead: my dear old Dad died in 1987, my Mom in 2004.
I have worked for more than 25 years as a writer, most recently as editor of the Interlake Enterprise. I started a full-time job at the Interlake Spectator in 1993, a paper I'd contributed copy to since the mid-80s.
We all have a place — whether we are patently wrong or simply deranged.
I am impatient with the truth. It has to be spoken or, in my sad case, written. Allow that I am wrong but let me be wrong in my own way. That's all I have ever asked this sometimes looney but always wonderful world.